


Clint Whumping

by Deathtouch



Category: Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012), The Avengers - All Fandoms
Genre: Canon Typical Violence, Gen, Graphic descriptions of vomiting, Humiliation, M/M, Vomit, Whump, character torture, kind of watersports but not really?, mace in the face
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-10
Updated: 2014-04-21
Packaged: 2017-11-11 19:42:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/482185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deathtouch/pseuds/Deathtouch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>☛ In which I shamelessly torture Clint for my own amusement, because character torture hurts so good.</p><p> <i>He knew the other male would never complain, but he had to be miserable. He was too good of an agent to complain. That was what Phil liked about him. He was quiet, he followed orders, and he never talked back. On the other hand, he was submissive as a lamb when it came to his superiors and couldn't say no. Sometimes Phil needed to know if Barton was reaching the end of his rope, or his limits. More than once Barton had pushed himself too far trying to complete a mission. Phil liked to think he knew what Barton could handle, but there was always a flicker of doubt.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pissed jeans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Dominque for your effort on this!

"Sir..."  

Coulson shifted, raising his right hand, touching the tips of his fingers to his ear piece. It was an unnecessary gesture but one born out of habit. He pressed the earpiece further in and focused straight ahead of him where there were monitors set up. The wall of screens before Phil was the epitome of surveillance. He had eyes everywhere. He even had one on his field operative. 

Coulson wondered if Clint had caught something he hadn't. Not unlikely, they called him Hawkeye for a reason. Phil scanned the screens, trying to find anything out of place.  

"What is it Barton?" 

It was running on hour eight of their stakeout. Agent Barton had the short end of the stick and was stuck outside in this heat. He was tucked away in a hollowed out parking garage. Honesty, it barely stood. There had been bombings here, maybe five or six years ago. No one had bothered to clean up the mess. Barton was hidden in the shade, lying flat on the ground with his rifle perched out in front of him, one eye peering through the scope. Despite his location, the cover wouldn't be saving him from the heat today. Hell, Phil was set up in the safe house with the AC thrumming, and he was still slick with sweat. 

"Did you know, on average, people spend six months of their lives sitting at stoplights?" 

Out of all the things Phil expected Barton to say, that wasn't one of them. Barton wasn't very talkative. In fact, this might have been the first thing the two of them had ever said to each other that didn't pertain to a mission or S.H.I.E.L.D. related objectives. 

Phil was surprised; he wasn't sure what to say. Phil Coulson was not one easily taken by surprise either.  

"Alright?" 

There was a beat, and Phil thought the conversation was finished. It wasn't. 

"I don't drive a car." Barton added, almost as an afterthought.   

Phil didn't doubt that. S.H.I.E.L.D. had a million and one ways to transport agents to necessary locations, and very few of them involved a car. Phil drove them, sometimes, where helicopters and planes couldn't land. Sometimes Clint had to trek a few miles on his feet. Headquarters was located downtown in New York. There were bus lines and subways, and virtually everything anyone could need was in the building itself or within walking distance. Phil realized Barton probably didn't know how to drive. Who would have taught him? He spent his adolescent year learning to shoot arrows, not driving stick-shift. Phil had read Barton's file... he knew the story. 

Phil considered all this before he murmured his reply. "Radio silence, Barton." He was starting to wonder what this outburst was all about.  

It was a full minute later when Barton's voice clicked through again, this time whispering a hushed "copy."  

Their mark should have been here hours ago. Phil wondered if he should call it off. It was hot out of there, and he felt for Barton. He knew the other male would never complain, but he had to be miserable. He was too good of an agent to complain. That was what Phil liked about him. He was quiet, he followed orders, and he never talked back. On the other hand, he was submissive as a lamb when it came to his superiors and couldn't say no. Sometimes, Phil needed to know if Barton was reaching the end of his rope or his limits. More than once, Barton had pushed himself too far trying to complete a mission. Phil liked to think he knew what Barton could handle, but there was always a flicker of doubt. 

Eleven hours had rolled by. Phil cleared his throat, patching through to Barton. "How’re you holding up Barton?" 

"Solid, sir." 

"It's not too hot is it?"  

Barton didn't reply for a long moment. "No, sir."  

The silence that stretched between the question and the answer had been far too telling. Phil shook his head. If their mark was going to show, it should have been by now. His gut twisted. He was always nervous to exit a situation like this before all the loose ends were tied. He supposed they could always try again tomorrow. Better late than never, right? "Return to base, Barton." He conceded. 

Phil's eyes flickered over the monitors. Barton didn't move for a while.  

"Do you copy?" Phil's eyebrows drew together in confusion.  

"Copy, sir." Barton sounded exasperated. Maybe, he was equally as annoyed about having to leave his post. He probably wanted to get this done today so he wouldn't have to come back and do it all over again tomorrow. What if their target showed two minutes after Barton left? That risk was there, and it was one they were both about to take. 

Phil watched through low quality pixels on a screen as Clint climbed to his knees. He pulled his rifle apart piece by piece and packed it away taking his sweet time. When he finally stood his chest was heaving from the effort. He trudged out of the frame.   

Phil leaned back in his chair, not quite feeling right.  

"Any chance... you could... meet me..." Barton was huffing as he spoke, long labored breaths.   

The safe house was an easy walk from where Barton had been perched, but after spending the whole day in this heat he must be exhausted. The humidity alone was enough to zap the livelihood out of anyone. Even if all he'd done all day was laid on his stomach, he had been alert and surely tense the whole time. Phil supposed he could make an exception just this once. "On my way."  

It was second nature for Phil to grab his suit jacket wherever he went, so he snatched it up off the back of the chair he'd been sitting in, laying it over his arm. He used the stairs and not the elevator, making a b-line for the doors once he hit the first floor, crossing the lobby. 

Phil hesitated within his first step outside. His breath stuck in his lungs. He didn't want to breathe in. When he did, it was like drinking in fire. Instantly he began to sweat. The crook of his arm where his jacket lay was soaked through when he reached the car. He shoved the key in the ignition and turned the air conditioning on full blast before he even settled in the driver’s seat. He tried not to feel guilty about leaving Barton out in this weather. Phil tossed his jacket into the back and pulled out of the parking lot.  

No more desert countries. Nowhere close to the equator. No Africa. No middle east. He'd find a nice mission in Norway or Sweden after this, maybe even Russia or northern Canada. The cold was no one's friend either, but at this point Phil would take anything over the heat. 

The city the hotel was nestled in could hardly be called a city at all. There was a main strip downtown, and then suddenly the ghetto met the main street. Abandoned and gutted out buildings lined the roads, stretching on and on. Further down the line, the outskirts of the town were a ramshackle mess of made of shoddy stucco structures and makeshift living spaces. Phil turned down a side street between abandoned buildings and waited.  

Barton came trudging out of an alleyway directly ahead of him. He had shed his uniformed armor and his leather sleeveless dangled over the silver briefcase where his rifle had been carefully packed away. His face was flushed red and it carried all the way down his neck, red blossoming over his chest. Even from afar Phil could see he was dripping with sweat. Phil unlocked the automatic doors, once, and then again.  

Barton pulled the door open and sighed as he fell into the passenger seat. He closed the door, wincing as it slammed. He reached out to turn the air conditioning to up, fingers fumbling with the dial. Phil watched. He tried to turn it again and again, before realizing it already was at full blast. Barton made a soft non-committal noise as he dropped his fingers. 

Phil turned to look at him. 

"How're you holding up, Barton?" He asked, making no effort to move the car.  

Barton leaned back in the seat, closing his eyes. He smelled raw and heady. He'd been baking in his own sweat all day. His hair usually stuck straight up, but now it was slicked down and flat. His face, all his exposed skin actually, was covered in a thick layer of grime and dirt. "Good, sir." He breathed. His chest rose and fell so slowly that Phil thought Barton was asleep for a second. 

"Thirsty..." Barton added in a self-conscious way, bowing his head, sheepish in his hope that there was something to drink.  

Phil moved to put the car in park, adjusting the keys in the ignition to just the battery. He climbed out and rounded the left side of the car and approached the trunk. He gave the boot a double tap and watched Barton breathe for a minute. Maybe, it felt longer because he was the one standing outside in the heat, but Barton took his time leaning across to the driver's side. He pressed the button on the car key to unlock the trunk and sunk back into his seat. Phil kicked himself for not doing it before he climbed out. The back popped up and Phil raised the hood, frowning at the contents. There was a wrack full of weapons tucked under in a hidden compartment, but a shotgun still lay atop. There were jumper cables and for some reason a plastic bag. There was a pack of water in bottles looped together in plastic packaging. Phil broke a bottle out of the pack and closed the trunk. The water was hot in his hands. He circled back to the driver’s seat, pulling the door open, sliding in.  

Barton flinched when Phil pulled the door closed and turned away from the noise. Phil passed him the bottle. Barton's eyes were closed. Phil nudged his arm until he responded. Barton's eyes fluttered and he took the water gratefully. He uncapped it and chugged. Phil watched. He watched the way Barton's Adam’s apple bobbed, the way his fingers bent the plastic as the bottle buckled under the strength of his hand. It had to taste like plastic. He knew for a fact it was war, but Barton downed it all anyway. 

"Have you had anything to drink today?" Phil frowned in concern. Barton lowered an empty plastic bottle and sucked in a few deep breaths, his chest rising and falling heavily.  

"No sir..." Barton murmured under his breath. 

Phil made an annoyed sound and turned the key, the engine roared. "Tomorrow. Water." His tone brokered no argument. This was an order. He couldn't have Barton passing out on him.  

No wonder he'd prattled on about time and stoplights earlier. The heat had fried his brain. Barton was scrambled eggs up there.  

Phil pulled through the alleyway and around the corner, making his way back to the hotel. The town was so small he found the main road in less than a minute. He drew up to the front of the hotel, slowing for a moment. He scanned Barton out of his peripheral. Barton seemed to be asleep. Phil knew the AC in their room was inadequate. He pressed down on the gas petal and circled the block. Once, twice, he rode out of the city onto a dusty highway that led out of town. He drove for twenty minutes before pulling a U-turn and heading back. He drove through the ghetto. He wove through side streets. He made the same circuit over and over again.  

The sun had set. Barton stirred. "Sir?" 

Phil said nothing.  

Barton brought a hand to his head, rubbing his temples. "Why are we still in the car?" He sounded confused.  

Phil cut across a block, starting for the hotel. "I felt like a bit of a drive." It would have been strange to tell the truth. He also knew he didn't have to explain himself, but saying nothing would be equally as strange. 

Barton nodded anyway, as if that was a perfect explanation.  

Phil pulled into a parking spot at the hotel car park. He turned the car off. The heat invaded at once. He reached across and gave Barton a gentle shake on the shoulder. "Up and at'em Hawkeye."  

Both of them climbed out of the car. Barton took his slow, careful time. He'd left his rifle in its case in the car. Phil pretended he didn't notice that and kept walking. They took the elevator up once they got inside. Barton leaned against the wall with closed eyes. It was muggy in the elevator. Their room wasn't much better.  

Barton went in first. He shuffled into the bathroom and turned on the sink's faucet, shoving his face down in the bowl. Phil watched. Barton swallowed mouthfuls of water, sighing between gulps. He was bent at an awkward angle, but his form was still exquisite. Phil likened him to a weapon. He didn't need his guns or his arrows. Barton could kill a man with his bare hands. With those rippling muscles molded to a lean frame, Phil made the mental note to keep this weapon well-oiled and taken care of.  

"Shower." Phil instructed, like Barton wouldn't have thought to do it on his own.  

Phil went back to the desk and the monitors. He listened as Barton turned off the faucet and closed the bathroom door. There was the whooshing noise of the shower and creaks and groans as Barton shifted his weight in the tub. It wasn't long before the noise faded away. Barton emerged from the bathroom moments later with a towel around his waist. His skin was prickled up with goose bumps and his jaw was set tight. He must have showered in cold water. Phil couldn't blame him.  

Barton plucked up a bottle of ibuprofen that was sitting on the dresser and swallowed two pills dry. He sat on the edge of the bed in his towel, crossing his ankles neatly. He didn't say anything. He wouldn't complain. Phil knew he wouldn't. 

"Ready to go again tomorrow?" Phil asked, voice level.  

Barton nodded solemnly. 

"Water tomorrow, Barton. I mean it."  

Barton nodded again.  

Barton faded very soon after, his chin dropping to his chest. He would blink his eyes, sit up a little straighter, and then fade again. Phil watched as Barton wavered a little, wobbling inconsistently before shaking awake. Sometimes it was just a flutter of his eyes and slight repositioning. Sometimes he would glance around the room. Once, he looked over at Coulson with no expression at all on his face before zoning out and nodding off again.  

It was late when Phil finally stood, passing Barton on the way to the bathroom. "Go .to bed, Barton." He muttered, almost annoyed he had to tell the other, almost When Phil was finished, he headed back to his spot at the desk. It may have been a safe house, but he still felt the need to take watch.  

He roused Barton four hours later and they switched. Phil collapsed into sleep, a long day both behind and ahead of him.  

When he woke again it was light. Barton was dressed and armed. He gave Phil a tap on the shoulder with one extended finger, like he didn't want to touch his handler or get too close. Phil rose without a word. He checked the clock. 

"Two more hours." He granted, nodding towards the bed.  

Barton stared at him for a long minute, a completely indecipherable expression on his face. He looked serious, maybe. Barton nodded his head and curled up on top of the covers. 

Phil pulled the cameras back up in each monitor and leaned back in his chair. Maybe he would make coffee. The coffee maker in their room proved a worthy opponent, but Phil won in the end. He made two cups, one for himself and the other he sat on the night table next to Barton's head. He paused, giving the agent a once over. He didn't look peaceful in his sleep. He looked conflicted. His eyebrows were pinched together, and his lips were down turned in a frown. Phil wanted to reach out and smooth the wrinkles in Barton's forehead away with a thumb. He didn't. 

Barton woke on his own, mere minutes before Phil would have gotten him up. He sat up stiffly and stretched his legs. He stared thoughtfully at the coffee before taking a tentative sip. It had gone luke-warm. You couldn't get cold in this weather. 

"Want a lift?" Phil offered. It was not a usual offer, but it was another hot one today.  

Barton shook his head. "I could do with a walk..." He seemed to decide this as he said it and stood.   

Phil thought about forcing him to take the ride instead but decided against it. He loaded Barton up with a pack of water and ice he'd put frozen overnight and two semi-automatics. He knew it was better not to bog him down with supplies, but these seemed appropriate.  

"Your rifle's in the car." Phil reminded.  

Barton seemed to stiffen before nodding.   

"It'll be unlocked when you get down there." He added, trying to sound reassuring. 

Barton left without a word. Phil watched him from the window.  

Phil eventually settled back into the chair in front of the wall of surveillance, eyes flittering over the screens. He watched as Barton arrived ten minutes later and set up, unpacking his rifle. He was in the same position as yesterday laying on his stomach. He pushed himself up on his elbows and laid out the water he'd brought in a perfectly neat row. Phil couldn't be sure through the quality of the image, but he thought the ice Barton brought out next was melted and dripping. The agent draped the ice pack on the back of his neck and sat for a moment. He lined his eye up with the scope and that was where he stayed.  

Hours passed. The ice melted. Phil checked the weather and frowned. He couldn't believe it was actually hotter today than it was yesterday.  

"Water." Phil reminded, patching through to Barton. 

Barton twitched. His fingers flexed. He uncapped a bottle and swallowed a mouthful and then another.  

"If you pass out on me, I'm making you write up the 'incapacitated agent' paperwork." Phil added. It had happened once to them before, in the wrong part of Denmark. A six year old kid threw a brick at Barton's head for no apparent reason and clocked him square on the temple. It surprised the hell out of both of them. Phil had shown Barton the folder of stapled documents he had to hand in, when it was all said and done. Barton had cracked a sympathetic smile at the time, head wrapped in gauze. He'd been a little out of it. That was a weird weekend.  

Phil cleared his throat. "Forty pages." He informed, sending a very clear message. 

Barton recognized the warning and finished off the rest of the bottle of water.  

Systematically, throughout the rest of the day, he would swallow a mouthful of water. Every fifteen minutes, Phil reckoned, though Barton wasn't particularly accurate. Sometimes, he would linger looking through the scope, face contorting in concentration. Sometimes, it seemed he would get thirsty in between the fifteen minute sets. 

The heat peaked at 2 pm. Barton had stopped drinking. Phil considered reminding him again. He felt like a mother hen. Phil decided he would rather not be a mother hen and said nothing, only watching. 

If their mark was coming it would be in the next two hours. It was not a very clear window, but recon hadn't been part of their mission and they took information gathered by others.  

Phil was confused when Barton suddenly dropped his head, laying it in the crook of his arm that had been folded out in front of him.  

"Barton?" Phil really did not want to haul his operative's ass out of that parking garage all by himself. His throat tightened with worry, but he told himself it was just because he'd be annoyed if Barton passed out.  

Barton let out a muffled noise, whimpering a little.  

Phil was at a loss. Barton didn't act like this. What was the heat doing to this guy? 

"Barton." Phil sat forward, rigid. 

Barton slowly raised his head, taking a few shaky breaths that resonated through the comms. He returned a watchful eye to the scope of his rifle. "Yes, sir?" He replied in a raw voice. 

"What was that about?"  

Barton hesitated to speak. "Nothing, sir, won't happen again." He sounded sure, sure enough that Phil wanted to believe him.  

"Are you alright up there?" Phil still didn't know what had happened and didn't know what to ask or how to respond. 

"Yes sir." Barton said.  

Phil had his misgivings. He hesitated to speak. He knew he needed to trust Barton in this. If the other male needed help, or an out, or anything at all he would ask....right?  

"Stay focused." Phil instructed.   

Something about this didn't sit quite right, but the moment passed and Barton did as he was told.  

Their mark appeared less than forty five minutes later. Phil spotted a car pulling up to the building they had eyes on. He sat up straight, resisting the urge the crack his knuckles or some other 'let's get down to business' cliché. "The target is in the vicinity." He informed.  

He knew Barton was as still as a statue now. Tense. Waiting. He didn't speak, but Phil knew that Barton had heard him.  

"He's in the building."  

"Copy." Barton's voice was level. 

It was a long and tense moment before the agent spoke again. "I have a visual." Barton added. 

"Do you have the shot?"  

Barton grunted. "Not yet, sir..."  

Phil waited patiently. 

"I have it." 

"Take it." Phil replied at once. 

The prattle of gunfire, two rounds, came muffled into his ear piece.  

Phil's body warmed, and he flushed with accomplishment. He probably should be feeling something else. He'd just given the order to kill a man, after all. There should have been guilt, maybe, but Phil had long since given up feeling for their targets. There were reasons they had to be terminated. Usually, they were good ones. Phil burned now with adrenaline and pride in a job well done. It had taken a half a day longer than expected, but it was another mission complete.  

"Good work, Barton." Phil relaxed, allowing himself a small smile. "Head back to base."  

Phil called it in. A clean-up crew would be here soon to take care of the body, to pack away all the secret security cameras, to wipe away any trace of agents Coulson and Barton's being here. Phil requested a pickup through the same channels. The faster they got out of here and got out of the heat the better. A rendezvous was set. They had an hour and a half before a pickup would arrive, and they would use it to decompress and pack their personals. Neither of them bothered to bring much on an op. Later on they would meet up with the air lift home. Phil radioed the rest of the plan to Barton, who was presumably trudging back to the safe house. Barton copied. 

"And Barton... do you want a ride into town?" Phil didn't mind picking him up again. It was still hot as the devil's dick out there.  

"No." Barton answered quickly. He barely missed a beat before correcting himself. "No, no thank you, sir."  

Phil shrugged it off. If Barton wanted to punish himself with a walk back in this weather, he could go right ahead. He tidied up the room in Barton's absence. He did some stuff being as simple as tucking the covers in and other stuff as involved as checking the encryption he'd used on the server where the camera's images had been relayed. He was physically unhooking AV cables from the wall of screens when Barton entered. 

Barton was just as sweaty as he'd been yesterday. Though, he managed to keep the shirt on his back this time. He lingered in the doorway a moment, opening his mouth like he was going to say something. His head was bowed, near bashful, and he looked at Phil through his lashes.  

Phil recognized right away that something was off.  

"Barton?" The word barely left his mouth before he saw the wet stain that had blossomed over his dark denim pants. Phil knew at once what it was. That was piss. This wasn't the first time this kind of thing happened. Plenty of ops called for it. Some snipers didn't leave their post for days on end. What else was an agent to do when nature called and they couldn't move? In this particular instance Phil would have given Barton permission, had he asked. Barton hadn't asked. The shape of the stain was enough to tell Phil that Barton had been laying in it. It hadn't run down his leg. Phil thought fleetingly of the moment Barton had dropped his head and whined...  

"Shower." Phil instructed, not even sure what to say. He supposed he would figure it out while Barton cleaned himself up.  

Barton nodded and did as he was told.   

That was the problem wasn't it? Barton always just did as he was told. He never complained, he never spoke up, and he never asked for anything. He just did what he was told. Barton was a great soldier and a valuable agent. Phil knew he was lucky to work with someone so professional, but now Barton was being professional to a fault and Phil felt like he'd done something wrong.  

Well you did force him to drink, and baited him into compliance.  

Phil chased the thought from his head, banishing it away. He busied himself with tidying up, again, in case the thought tried to come back. The room was spotless by the time they left. 

The two of them didn't speak again until they were on the jet, heading home.  

"Barton," Barton had been staring at the floor the whole time. He looked up at Phil, expressionless. "You could have asked." Phil's eyebrows drew together, concerned and confused about the whole thing. Phil hated being confused. 

Barton nodded his head. "I know sir." His voice seemed to catch in his throat, and the words came out in a whisper.  

"If you need anything, ever, just ask." Phil didn't mean to sound irritated, but as soon as the words left his mouth, that's how they came out.  

Barton nodded again, dropping his gaze. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Edited: 8/18/12]
> 
> If you'd like to see more, please comment with suggestions of ways we can torture Clint together. I am eager to add to this, but severely lacking in ideas.


	2. Vomit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally after all that wait, a tiny update. Thanks to Dominique for your efforts, and then an extra special thanks for The Subway Wolf for being awesome and beta-ing.
> 
> HEADS UP: The tags have been updated to include Vomit and Graphic Descriptions of Vomiting. If throw up grosses you out skip the first four paragraphs and proceed to the break. There is still a little bit more of it in the chapter, but it's not as in depth as it is in the beginning.
> 
> Also, thanks to 'sd' who suggested Clint get sick because that somehow lead me to this.

Clint pressed the back of his hand to his mouth, gagging and choking and gagging again. He squeezed his eyes shut tight, tears threatening the corners of his eyes. Fresh vomit burned acrid and hot over his tongue. His throat convulsed, the contents of his stomach spewing out passed the back of his hand. He gagged and gasped for breath. God his stomach hurt; No, his whole body hurt. The smell of half-digested food and bitter stomach acid was making him sick again.  
  
Clint found himself somehow on his knees. He wasn’t sure which way was up. The world around him pitched and rolled, and his head connected with the ground making a sickening crack against the concrete. It should have hurt, but he was pretty sure he couldn’t feel it. He was on his side. Maybe. Clint couldn’t actually tell what position he was in, or which way he was facing, or what was up and what was down. Clint realized that he felt hot all over. He was sweating.  The concrete felt cool and refreshing against his face so he pressed his cheek against it. His stomach lurched. His throat felt swollen on the inside, engorged and raw. His tongue felt like it was filling up his mouth. He tried to draw in a breath. Thick smoke filled his lungs and rolled passed the back of his throat. Clint was gagging again. More vomit gushed up, burning his esophagus in its wake, splattering out on to the cement ground, pooling in front of his face.  
  
That was where Clint stayed, and he would have been motionless if it wasn't for his stomach muscles convulsing, pushing him to vomit again and again. Not that there was anything left to throw up. It was an uncontrollable sensation. He dry heaved and gagged when he tried to take a breath. The air was thick around him and smelled awful. Rotten blood and dead bodies awful. It wasn't the smell that bothered him so much as the way the clouds of white filled his mouth. Plumes of smoke rolled over his tongue and he could practically taste it. Or he had tasted it before his mouth filled up with sour vomit. Now all he tasted was his own puke, even as white waves wafted in the air around him, billowing into his mouth and lungs.  
  
Through the opaque, misty haze, Clint thought he saw a figure. He was so disoriented, and confused, it was very hard to tell what was going on around him. His fingers twitched at his sides like he wanted to reach for his gun, or bow, to take aim and protect himself from whatever was approaching. Or maybe they just twitched because his body was completely and utterly out of his control. He knew he should have had a weapon in hand, but he really had no idea where his had gone. Those silver canisters had come clinking down the hall, smoke had gone exploding out of them and the world had come crashing down around him.  
  
***

"Jesus, Barton." Phil Coulson had seen plenty of sorry sights in his life time, and this had to rank up there with the best of them. (Or was it the worst of them?) Phil's stomach turned, and he felt like he should look away. There was a lot of puke.

There was a pang of guilt, a little voice in the back of Phil’s head that berated him for sending Barton in first. Phil knew it was Barton’s job to go in first. That’s what all his training was for, that’s what the effort to recruit him had been for. Barton was the operative who could take down bases, buildings, and operations all on his own with a bow and an arrow and his bare hands. That was what he was here for.

Unfortunately that didn’t stop Phil from feeling like this was somehow his fault. How was he supposed to know that Hydra had graduated from sticky foam and dazer lasers to low-grade chemical warfare?

Phil pressed his pocket square over his mouth, breathing in through the cloth. Whatever chemical was in the air was having a bad kind of effect on Barton. The gas smelled awful, and Phil’s head was starting to pound. He could only imagine how Barton was feeling. Was he feeling anything? Was his agent still conscious? Phil crouched down next to him, and radioed for an emergency evacuation.

Barton had to be retrieved by backup and helped out since he wasn’t well enough to walk on his own. He sputtered coughs and gagged when they hit the fresh air outside. That was a good sign, Phil supposed. The two of them piled into the waiting helicopter together, and were immediately lifted back to base.

During the ride Phil leaned over and took Barton by the chin, lifting his head. "Barton. Stay with me."  
  
Phil was almost sure he heard Clint groan "sir" in reply. He pulled his hand back after that, wiping the vomit off his fingers.  
  
Barton shook for most of the way there. His breathing was shallow and fevered and he gulped at the air in desperation. Phil watched. There was little he could do to help. He radioed in again and requested medical on standby for when they landed at the Helicarrier, though he hoped someone had already thought to do that. Had he himself already done that?  
  
They were ten minutes out when Barton started with a jolt, a sudden moment of clarity. His eyes opened wide. His pupils were dilated and his eyes looked black "Sir?" his voice was scared and desperate and not like anything Phil had ever heard from him before.  
  
"I’m right here, Barton," Phil replied.  
  
"Sir, it hurts," Barton added in a pained tone.  
  
Phil tightened his jaw, but didn't say anything. He couldn't bring himself to.  
  
Barton laid his head back and squeezed his eyes shut tight. His fingers dug into his thighs where his hands had fallen to rest. He spent the rest of the ride trying to breathe, chest heaving. He was fighting his own body. The battle was evident in the tense muscles and the look on his face. He tried his best to fight it, but he ended up vomiting again. He ducked his head between his knees and puke splattered on the floor of the helicopter. It was all over Barton’s tactical boots.  
  
Phil looked away. He didn't want to watch.  
  
Arrival at the Helicarrier couldn't have come sooner. Barton was whisked away at once, taken on a gurney straight to the med bay.  
  
Phil's phone was already buzzing in his pocket before he stepped out of the helicopter. His operative may be out of the game but the mission was still on going, and Phil was still a senior officer who had to take calls. Hydra bases don't ransack themselves...  
  
Barton finished out the night in the med bay with an oxygen mask on his face and an IV in his arm. They poked and prodded him and stuck him with needles and asked him endless questions which he was barely cognizant enough to answer. Phil checked in as often as possible, balancing his operative and the operation as impressively and smoothly as only Phil Coulson could. Mostly he kept his distance, watching from the sidelines as Barton was taken care of. He stopped the nurses who walked by him and asked them for updates. He kept his phone pressed to his ear, listening to Sitwell’s every other word.  
  
It was late at night when the mission was complete and Phil could finally put down his phone, and breathe in the accomplishment of another completed mission. He went to check on Barton and Barton was fast asleep. The monitors that were connected to him let out a slow, steady string of beeps. Phil found himself sitting at Barton's bedside, watching the other man dream. Barton's eyes moved behind his eyelids and his chest rose and fell with labored breaths.  
  
Phil reached out, running the pad of his thumb along the places in Barton's arm that had been stuck with needles. Purple bruises were blossoming under his skin. Phil wondered if that had hurt, or of Barton had already been pumped so full of meds that he hadn't felt a thing.

It probably hurt...  
  
"He'll be alright." Phil looked up. There was a nurse there. He might have heard her walk over. He couldn't remember now. He pulled his hand back and nodded. She had been sweet to him today, keeping him in the loop on Barton’s situation. “Residual effects, maybe. Sick for a few days, but he’ll be alright. We see him in here all the time. I know he’s tough. He’ll make it through this too.” When she smiled, Phil believed her.

“Thank you for your help,” He replied.  
  
"You should get some sleep." She was young and brunette, and when she spoke she seemed so sure that this was the best course of action. Phil couldn't help but to be convinced.  
  
"Let me know when he wakes up," Phil added before taking his leave.  
  
Phil's quarters felt stark, and bare. He never liked staying overnight in the Helicarrier. He much preferred the offices in New York and D.C. At least there his room had a window. What was the point of a window in the belly of a flying aircraft twice the size of the Titanic? There wasn't one. There were only prison-like cells and bunks with bad mattresses and just enough room for your guilt and worry to stack up beside you.  
  
There was a pile of paperwork on Phil's desk in the morning that must have grown over night. He elected to ignore it and wandered down to the med bay instead. He wished he had brought coffee, or food, or some form for Barton to sign as an excuse to be down there...  
  
Barton was sitting at the edge of the hospital bed, dressed only in a pair of sweats. His legs were dangling over the side and he was hunched over. He looked stiff, or sore. He sat up straight when he noticed Phil though. The bruises on his arm had grown since Phil last saw them. Phil knew his eyes were lingering too long on Barton’s arms, and he had to literally square his jaw and bring himself to look away.  
  
"Sir." Barton's voice was a raspy whisper, gravely and thick.  
  
"How are you feeling?" Phil asked.  
  
Barton decided not to speak, but nodded his head to show he was doing alright.  
  
"In pain?" Phil thought of Barton in the helicopter with his eyes squeezed shut tight. He thought of Barton's fingers digging into his leg. He thought of the words Barton had said.  
  
 _It hurts._  
  
Barton dropped his gaze and shrugged.  
  
Phil wanted to reach out. He almost did, or started to, but flinched instead, aborting the move. "Take your time. Get better." The words came out sounding distinctly like an order. Phil hated how he sounded.  
  
"I will." Barton whispered words full of determination.  
  
There was a moment where Phil stood and Barton sat and Phil looked at Barton and Barton looked at the floor. Phil wasn't sure what else to say. He murmured that he'd check on Barton again, making some excuse about the pile of paperwork waiting for him, and left before he could make things worse.  
  
Phil didn't end up visiting Barton in the med bay again.  
  
It was probably for the best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. And remember we can torture Clint together! Any ideas you have to make him miserable, send my way. I am always open for suggestions!


	3. Kangaroo?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (clears cobwebs) anyone still here? i finally have an update.
> 
> i owe everything to subwaywolf, my amazing and perfect beta who is a god among men and whom i do not deserve. thank you for all your effort editing, wolfu.
> 
> this chapter is less physically painful for clint and more sad, but still some nice whump

Phil passed Barton a water battle. (He didn't say anything, though. Not this time.)

Barton peeled at the label. The bottle was sweating, but the two of them were doing alright considering. Wind came rolling in, uneven and without pattern over the empty landscape. It filtered through the open windows of their jeep.

"Sir?" Barton said, quietly.

Phil nodded to acknowledge him.

"Can we walk the road?" He asked.

Coulson considered for a moment. "Would that make you feel better?" he asked.

Clint shrugged.

Sure they could walk the road.

Phil unlocked the doors and they both climbed out. Barton's tactical boots made crunching sounds when they met the dry, dusty sand packed into the ground. Phil circled around the front of the jeep while Barton retrieved his recurve from the back seat. He nocked an arrow, holding it ready but not aiming distinctly at anything. He picked his way through the scrubby yellowing grass and weeds sprouting from the ground like it mattered to anyone, out here in the middle of nowhere, if he stepped on dead grass or not. He approached the road with care. Phil was well aware of the risk, but Barton was leading and he was wearing Kevlar.

Slow and tense, they walked a length of the road. They were cautious and quiet and took stock of everything around them.

Phil tried the binoculars a few times. Everything looked the same to him. "How are you feeling about it?" He asked.

"Better." Barton nodded. "We can go back."

"Did you see something?" Phil asked, turning to head back to the car.

"No," Barton admitted, glancing around again.

This was the extent of their conversation on and outside of missions: biting one-word answers. They trusted each other though, and that was the most important thing. As long as they could get along without talking they didn’t need talk, and they did get along. It was something that discouraged Phil at first. He wasn't expecting to be best friends with all of his agents, but he did want to be at least a little in favor. He could never read Barton though. Didn't even know where he stood with the guy. He was a consummate professional and a soldier and it was as maddening as it was useful.

"Just feel better about it then?" Phil asked, raising his eyebrows.

Barton shrugged, and then nodded.

They returned to their seats in the car. The breeze filtered through the windows. It was hot, but it felt nice. Barton peeled at the label of his water bottle and looked up again and again. In short, sweeping glances he took in everything. "...Doesn't make any sense," he muttered.

Phil never expected it when Barton spoke up or even just spoke his mind. He tried not to seem surprised, because that might be discouraging. He wanted to hear things like that; he just wasn't sure what to make of it when he did. Phil waited a beat before asking. "What doesn't?"

Barton just shrugged. He busied himself uncapping the water and taking a sip so he wouldn't have to answer.

"The fact that their transportation is unsecured?" Phil supplied. It didn't make any sense, but that was what they were there to figure out, now wasn't it.

Barton didn't say anything.

They sat in silence for a long time then.

The sun sank in the sky and the shadows of scrub brush and tall grass grew longer. The breeze stopped rolling and they started sweating in their seats. It wasn't as bad as it could have been, but it certainly wasn't fun or comfortable.

For almost a half hour, Barton had been squinting into the distance, tracking something with his eyes. Phil didn't ask, but he did notice. He tried to lean forward and look around to see what was out there, but he didn't see anything worth noting. A pair of kangaroos hopping along on the horizon, but those were as common as deer around here and had nothing to do with their recon. Phil sat back in his seat and let it slide. Barton would tell him if it was important.

Phil's phone chirped and he picked it up from the cup holder to see an email from HQ. Nothing important. With Barton concentrating in earnest on the road and didn't mind looking away long enough to read though. He was almost finished with the document when he saw Barton shift out of the corner of his eye.

"Sir," Barton said.

Phil's first response is to look for a vehicle on the road but there isn't one. He leaned forward in the driver’s seat, but there was nothing in the distance either. "What is it, Hawkeye?" He asked, wondering if it was too far out for him to see.

"What's that animal?" Barton asked.

Phil paused in confusion and glanced around. "What?"

"4 o'clock. What is that?"

Phil looked over Barton's shoulder. Surely he didn’t mean... "The kangaroos?"

Barton frowned in concern. "...like on a cereal box? A kangaroo?"

"What?" Phil said again, just as a reflex. He wasn’t entirely unsure what to make of what Barton was saying to him and it was obvious, written all over Phil’s face. "Barton, have you never seen a kangaroo before?"

Barton dropped the determination in his gaze, suddenly turning blasé. He didn't give any inclination that he heard the question.

"At a zoo? Or on TV?" Phil nearly asked about the circus, but quickly decided against it.

"It's past six." Barton said then, completely changing the subject. It was such a turn around that Phil floundered for a minute, not sure what to say.

"It is; you're right."

Eyes on the road then. Back to business. The vehicle should be coming through and soon.

The next time Barton speaks, the sun has set and it's to alert Phil that there's a car on the road.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember, we can torture Clint together. Feel free to comment with ways we can cause him physical and/or emotional, pain. Thanks for reading, friends.


	4. Mace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aw shucks u guys waited so long for an update. bang, bam, two in one day. little more physical pain this time. did anyone suggest this? if you did, thanks for the suggestion.
> 
> also big huge never ending thank you to subwaywolf the most amazing beta-reader in human history whose prowess and godlike nature cannot be matched in any other human form. thank you wolfu, you are too kind to put up with my bullshit.
> 
> tags have been updated, please review

"Sir?”

Sometimes weird things happened, things which shouldn’t be weird at all. Sometimes SHIELD agents forgot what it was like in the real world. The world of needing warrants to access certain buildings. The world of subsidized suburbs. The world where people were still worried about B&E’s and burglars. The world where the genetically enhanced threat to the city was just a conspiracy, and the cover-up in the paper about a construction site collapsing was more likely true.

Luck hadn’t really been on their side recently and today was looking like another one of those bad, bad days.

Barton’s breath came hissing and ragged over the comms. “I…” through his teeth he sucked in more air. “calling for,” another hiss “tactical,” and then another “retreat.”

“Barton, what is it?” Phil had been circling around the building which Barton was currently inside of. They did their own recon for their ops when they could, considering the last time they let a secondary team do it, Clint was left baking in the heat for hours. (Phil tried not to think about that mission. Ever.) Phil paused in his progression. He’d been slowly making his way towards the structure they were set to infiltrate during their mission tomorrow, but, for now, he paused and started to double back. “Agent, report.” He added. He didn’t like not knowing what was going on.

“There…” Barton sucked in a breath. “…was a…civilian. A civilian inside.”

Phil’s pace quickened as he approached the apartment complex Barton had gone towards. The building stretched at least twenty floors up, with balconies on the west and east facing sides. Balconies with good vantage points. “You got bested by a civilian?” That didn’t seem likely.

“She had mace.” Barton replied, in too much pain to sound anything more than miserable.

Fuck.

“Don’t touch your eyes.” The warning came out before Coulson could even think to say anything else.

Barton moaned in response.

Phil had, fortunately, only experienced pepper spray once in his life. He had been an army ranger once upon a time and battling through a shot in the eyes with Phase 3 OC Pepper Spray was just one of many exercises in boot. As shitty as it had been, he was glad for the experience now because even though all those years had passed he still knew what to do.

“You’re alright, Hawkeye. You’re going to be fine. All you’ve gotta do is just get down to the lobby.” Phil entered the building as he spoke. He was worried he would need a fob or key or that there might be security, but the lobby was empty.

Phil heard the sound of an elevator through the comms and then Barton's shaky voice after “Can’t….” He struggled through the pain to speak. “Can’t see… the buttons…”

“Is there a railing? Up against the walls, is there a railing?” Phil asked. He located the elevators and pushed the up arrow, calling the car to him.

Barton offered a strangled sound that Phil took as an affirmative.

“Good. Hands on the railing, Barton. Hold tight. Try and blink your eyes.”

Barton moaned again.

“Answer me, Agent. Are your hands on the railing?” In his rising frustration, Phil jabbed at the console again pushing the up button a little frantically. He knew it wouldn’t actually help anything go faster but it made him feel better.

“Yes, sir.” Barton replied.

Phil could hear the elevator working, the cables creaking and groaning. Or maybe it was Barton groaning? He sounded like he was getting progressively worse. He had been ragged with his breath before but now he was hissing and panting and it wasn’t nice to listen to.

“H-holding tight, sir.” Clint added, saying it like he wanted to be heard. Saying it like he wanted a response.

“Good. Nice job, Hawkeye.” Phil drew a breath and nodded. “Is the elevator moving, Barton?”

“Yes sir.” Barton said.

The light on top of the elevator doors lit up red then, and a soft sound chimed to let the lobby know the car had arrived. The doors slid open and Phil found Barton inside. He was facing the left side of the elevator with his hands gripping the railing just like he’d been told to. He was braced, and his whole body was tense. The muscles in his arms were bared for the world to see, so tight they were trembling with the effort. Or maybe it was the pain that made Barton tremble. 

Phil reached out and soothed a hand over Barton's arm. Barton flinched at the touch.

“It's me, Barton." Phil said, and the relief was immediate for the both of them to be in each other's company again. "Let go, Hawkeye. Come on.”

On command, Barton released his hold on the rail. He sucked in a hissing breath through his teeth and turned to his handler. His face was dark, dusty red. There were wet tears rolling uncontrollably down the sides of his face. His eyes were squinted closed. His jaw was clenched up tightly.

“Tip your head back.” Phil told him.

Barton seethed, and tipped his head back, and his whole body shook. “Can’t see.”

“I know you can’t.” Coulson sympathized. For someone who relied heavily on their eyesight that had to be scary, and he understood. "We're gonna fix that, Barton. I promise." He tugged Clint from the elevator and out into the lobby. Phil could feel the muscles he was holding shake, and tremble. “We’re going back the way we came. We’re going to get to that corner store a block and half away. We’re going to get you cleaned up.”

“Yes sir.” Barton said. He grunted and flinched and brought the hand Phil wasn't holding up to his face. He dug his palm into his eye. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck."

"No. No. Barton." Phil had to reach out and trap up his agent’s wrist, yanking Barton's hand away from his face.

"Fuck." Barton hissed.

"Am I going to have to cuff you?" Phil asked, likely not joking. Coulson always carried zip ties.

Barton let out a choked sound and shook his head. "Please sir." He moaned, not answering.

"Hands at your side, Agent. Keep walking," Phil ordered, raising his voice He let Barton’s one hand go, trusting him to follow his orders. "Now. Right now. Walk."

Barton muscled up and did what he was told, forcing his hands to his side. He clenched his fingers up into fists again and again.

Phil regained his hold on Clint's arm and led him out the lobby doors, outside. The afternoon sunlight lit up the sidewalk in bright gold, so intense even Phil had to squint out at the road ahead. Clint gasped in pain. With his free hand he grabbed the loose fabric of his own uniform and dug his fingers in; anything to keep from rubbing the pepper spray further into his eyes and exacerbating the pain in any way.

At the end of the block they turned the corner and made for the convenience store on the street. It was small, really. Hopefully not so small that it wouldn’t have what they needed.

“Hands on the glass. On the storefront.” Phil ordered.

Barton made a noise, deep in his throat, like the start of a yell. It rumbled off into a dark sounding animal noise instead and he cut himself off before it got too loud. He reached out blindly then, feeling for glass. When he met the store front window he drove his palms in. He was braced again, like he had been in the elevator. The tension went all the way through Barton’s body, and he dug his heels into the concrete.

“Good. Hold tight, Hawkeye.” Phil instructed him.

Phil entered into the store then. There were heavy jingle bells on a chain that knocked into the plate glass of the door.

Coulson spotted the clerk first. She was tucked away in the back, and her line of vision went straight down the narrow aisles to focus on Agent Barton who was pressed up against her store front window, tears streaming down his blotchy red face. Her jaw was slack at the sight.

"Do you have dish soap?" Phil asked, ignoring her reaction to the scene altogether. He went for the refrigerated wall on the left and opened one of the doors to grab a jug of milk. It was only a half gallon but he figured it would be enough. 

"What?" The clerk asked, at a loss.

"Dish soap. Dawn dish soap." Phil said, plucking up a half gallon of water too.

"Is your friend okay?" The clerk asked instead on answering his question. Coulson might have been annoyed if her concern wasn't so endearing.

"He's fine." Phil said. He walked to the next aisle and scanned it hastily.

The clerk's gaze flickered to Phil then. "He looks pretty messed up. Do you want me to call the authorities or something?"

"Ma'am, we are the authorities." Phil told her. He smiled politely and located the dish soap all on his own. He even left her a substantial tip despite her lack of assistance, though in truth it was only because he couldn't be bothered to wait around for change.

“This way, Hawkeye.” Phil said when he exited onto the sidewalk again.

Barton’s hands shook, and he forced them down to his sides. He was blinking wearily, trying to find Phil.

Phil went for Barton's arm again to guide him along. “Sit, here on the curb. Tip your head up. Let me see.”

Barton did as he was told. He lowered himself down and sat down on the curb, kicking his feet out. There was a great golden ray of sun slicing between the two buildings ahead of them and it just so happened to paint the spot they had picked in fading, golden light. The tears were still rolling down Clint’s face, forcing the pepper spray out of his eyes. This was just spreading the oil of the mace even more, and Barton was burning up from it, red all over.

Phil had Barton close his eyes as he poured the milk on first. It soothed away the sting so well that Barton moaned, wanton in his relief. The second Coulson eased off on with the milk, Barton’s one hand shot up to hold tight on his handler’s wrist, keeping it in the position that would force him to keep pouring.

“Easy, easy. Let me do this, Barton.”

Barton drew in another shaky breath and nodded. He eased up his hold but didn't immediately let go.

Phil poured the water on Barton’s face next, washing away the milk and getting the worst out of his eyes the way that only the water could. The dish soap came next. It was a blue bottle with a penguin on it and the soap cut through the residue of the pepper spray left still on Barton's skin. Another splash of milk, a little more water, and Barton’s breathing returned to normal.

“There you go.” Coulson couldn’t help himself. He reached out to brush Clint’s wet bangs from his face, pushing them away from his forehead. He caught himself in the act though and pulled his hand back. “Feeling better?” He asked, his voice dropping down to somewhere professional.

Clint nodded.

“What happened in there?” Phil had to ask.

“…’S just scaling the side of the building.” Clint answered in a small voice. His vision still must have been hazy, or at least sensitive, because he couldn’t seem to focus. His eyes were blood shot and his face was still red but he looked better. “Climbed into this balcony, real good view of that building we’re set to infiltrate tomorrow, and there was this girl there…” He made a motion with his hand.

Phil nodded in understanding.

“Eighteen. Maybe. Patio door was wide open. She saw me. Panicked.”

“You do have a way with women,” Coulson told him.

Barton didn’t have anything to say to that, though. Just frowned. “I… I had to take her down to get out of there. She hit the floor real hard. Do you think she’s okay? Should we… Could we make sure?”

Oh. Clint.

“She maced you in the face, Hawkeye. I think she’s better off right now than you are.”

Barton swallowed, and ducked his head. “Yeah.” He whispered. “Yeah, sure.”

Coulson decided to let Barton sit a while longer. The slice of sunlight shifted into a sliver and eventually melted away into nothing at all. Barton sat in the low light of the set sun instead. A carton of milk, and a jug of water, and a blue bottle of dish soap all lined up at his side. His squinting never stopped, and his face remained red the whole time.

Phil thought maybe after a little while they would go back and try recon again, but he couldn’t bring himself to force Barton back out in the field. He stuck out his hand to help his agent up. “We’ll let another team go.”

Coulson probably didn’t need to, but he helped to lead Barton back, placing one hand on the small of his back. Barton seemed to appreciate it. Though it was usually pretty tough to make sense of his emotions, and it was even tougher when all he could do was scrunch his face up in discomfort, but Barton didn’t pull away and that was a good sign.

They went back to their room where Coulson connected with a beta team to go scouting for them and went over procedure for tomorrow. Barton sat on the bed and stared longingly at the AC unit propped up in the window.

“Hey.” Coulson said over his shoulder. “Go wash your face with cold water.”

Barton left to obey without a word. When he came back the AC was blowing; Coulson had turned it on for him. Clint actually cracked a smile and saddled up to the side of bed with the best access to the constant stream of cold air. He let it blow across his damp face

"Barton, you know you can ask me for anything, right?" Phil said, not for the first time in their relationship.

"I know." Barton murmured, wiping a few beads of water from his forehead on the back of his hand. "Can you make sure that girl is okay?" He added, a moment later.

Phil frowned. "She maced you in the face Barton."

"Yeah." Barton shrugged. "Okay."

And then; much later: "Nevermind."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember, we can torture Clint together! Please feel free to comment with ideas on ways we can make his life miserable. Thanks for reading.


End file.
